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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
Saran, travelling through a burnt and desolate woods, makes the mistake of drinking with a pair of brothers he finds there—brothers who have a sinister agenda and a twisted view of righteousness. Outnumbered, with only a knife to defend himself, can Saran save himself with wits alone?
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Seitenzahl: 23
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE DEAD WOODS
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1988 by Larry Tritten.
Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, July 1987.
Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
THE DEAD WOODS
LARRY TRITTEN
The sky was bruised with carmine light, the sun a festering phosphorescent pustule as Saran entered the Dead Woods, a region of blackened, stripped, and lifeless trees standing as a bleak epitaph to the lush forest that had once grown there. No bird sang, no animals were present, and as Saran proceeded, he saw that not so much as a dung bug or cinder spider was in evidence. The air stank of flaky ash, and the ground crunched like crystal remnants underfoot. The dead trees stretched over a series of low hummocks and into the distance.
Saran was understandably eager to put the woods behind him. A sense of bane infested the area; he quickened his step. A few minutes later he was halted by the sight of two men ahead, sitting with their backs to a fuliginous tree bole; they were dressed in sackcloth and drinking from an amber bottle they passed back and forth.
“Greeting,” called one, seeing Saran, and they both smiled at him.
“Good day,” Saran said, approaching. He saw that both of the men had essentially identical features—prognathous jaw, a nose that looked knocked out of kilter, and the bright glitter of tiny porcine eyes under rambling shaggy brows.
“Wayfarer?” one of the men asked, and when Saran answered yes, he proffered the bottle. “Sit a bit and suck a dram with us, footbutcher.”
Saran considered; he had a flask of water, but perhaps a jolt of something stronger would put a lilt in his step and take the edge off of the sense of foreboding he had felt since entering the woods. He accepted the bottle and drank, noticing as he did so an object at the bottom of the bottle that swirled around there as he tilted it. The liquor had a dry, fruity, intensely alcoholic taste and traced a trail of mellow warmth all the way to Saran’s stomach. He held up the bottle and peered within.
“Oh, that… It’s an eyeball,” said one of the men, taking the bottle back from Saran. “Last one to take a draft must eat the orb, which is per ritual. This is a special bottle for celebrating and commemorating the first anniversary of our burning of these woods. The vintners of Sod mark each vintage year with a special bottle, fabulously priced, that is distinguished by the contribution of an eye from one of their family, chosen by lot. Such is tradition.”
“I thank you for the drink,” Saran said. “Good day, and luck to you. I’ve leagues to go, and the road is long.”
